


Don't Ask Why

by PreseaMoon



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2504174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PreseaMoon/pseuds/PreseaMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Namie would appreciate it if Izaya were a bit more selective when it came to making her audience to his perverse hobbies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Ask Why

Ever since she started working for Orihara Izaya, Namie’s daily routine has alternated between being tedious and exasperating, very often for the same reasons. It’s grown rather trying to feel much of anything towards the secretary/assistant/babysitter position she has found herself stuck in.

Most days it seems like she is doing nothing more than playing to the whims of a child, a barely comprehensible child lacking limits and anything resembling a human moral compass. Considering that Namie’s job often entails organizing messes she’s half-certain Izaya has deliberately left for her, completing lists of tasks that seldom make sense with context, and cooking meals for the apparent sole purpose of being criticized, saying she works for a child is more apt than she would like. Although, Izaya is younger than her—probably—not that it makes her feel any better about the situation in any measure.

If nothing else he pays well, because Izaya does possess the self-awareness to know he’s a pain in the ass. Unfortunately an amount of money that makes his presence tolerable does not exist. He has a way of exuding pretension simply by breathing, by blinking, by making any expression, or no expression at all, and especially by talking, even if it’s a single word it will ooze superiority and fill the room. Everything about Orihara Izaya is grating.

Izaya is out at a meeting with the Awakusu, and Namie has been tasked with cooking a meal and tidying the already clean apartment for his next visitor. Because he enjoys being unnecessarily difficult, Izaya has provided neither guidelines nor details. The identity of the guest or guests is unknown, their time of arrival is unknown, Izaya’s own estimated arrival has not been disclosed to her, what to cook has been left entirely to her discretion. In all respects this is little more than an opportunity for low-grade mockery—and humiliation, if her pride were any less than it is.

Whoever is coming, Namie decides, can’t be too important in terms of status. Izaya would not allow her this chance to make a fool of herself—and thus him—if they were someone with a sliver of power or influence. And so Namie takes care to put as little effort as possible into the chores assigned to her, making the plainest, quickest ramen she can and letting it sit. She allows the folders she’s yet to organize for her own benefit lay strewn on her desk and cleans up after herself in the kitchen area but does nothing more.

Around sunset the long awaited buzzing arrives. Namie goes to the door, bringing up the camera for the building’s entrance more for the sake of satiating her curiosity than out of caution, and is disappointed and vaguely repulsed that the honored guest Izaya spoke of is none other than the schoolboy that had shown up some months ago. Being the only boy his age to personally see Izaya like that—to her knowledge—has made him memorable, but she certainly wasn’t anticipating him to see him ever again.

Her first thought is, somewhat senselessly, is this boy a moron?

She can still remember some of what Izaya said to the kid. He got a real kick out of tormenting him, that’s for sure. He clearly wasn’t the single boy among dozens of schoolgirl followers, but maybe that is the case if he’s here now.

The boy enters the apartment with familiarity. He smoothly eyes where he expects Izaya to be but doesn’t call out for him. And then he sees Namie and his movement stutters to an awkward halt.

His brow knits together, confusion rising as he gives another quick survey around the apartment. “Who’re you?”

Namie crosses her arms and swallows back distaste. She knows better than to underestimate the freak children in this city. “Namie. His secretary.”

The boy frowns like he doesn’t believe her. “What.” He sighs almost like he expects this to be some sort of joke. “Where’s Izaya?”

“Out.”

Frowning, the boy stares at her for nearly a minute before dragging his feet to the sofa and falling heavily onto it. His legs stick out over the arm and his feet wiggle. She watches him do this for several minutes, and just as she’s about to move away his arms hook around the back of the sofa and he pulls himself up. He offers an impudent smile and says, “So Izaya pays you to be his friend?”

Considering the last time he was here, Namie thinks this boy is too familiar with her and this apartment.

“No,” Namie says flatly, scowling. She scowls further as she repeats her job title.

“Right. When will Izaya be back?”

“I don’t know.”

The boy is frowning again. She can’t remember his name. It’s floating somewhere in the back of her mind but all she can recall is the “kun” Izaya attached to it. He appears unimpressed with her performance. She hopes this boy isn’t actually someone of consequence, though she can’t imagine how he possibly could be.

Even if he is no one he is still a guest or client in Izaya’s home. Namie knows she ought to be offering him something to drink or eat or some courtesy at the very least. She can visualize herself performing these tasks, interacting with this high school boy that attends the same institution as her brother, and that on its own is exhausting. 

She wonders if he’s in the same class as Seiji. She wonders if he knows him, and immediately decides if he’s not already as far as can be from her brother she will do her best to make it so.

While she busies herself at her desk organizing files and other papers and rearranging most of what’s there, the boy goes over to Izaya’s desk and is somehow able to access one of Izaya’s computers. At first Namie is dumbfound by this, but she quickly dismisses that and instead vindictively hopes the kid is downloading porn and viruses to the computer.

“Where did Izaya go?”

Namie stops what she’s doing and turns her entire body to face him levelly as though this will get across to him just how little she wants to interact with him. “A meeting.”

He stares at her, expecting elaboration. His gaze flickers off to the side and back. “When did he leave?”

“Hours ago.”

It’s not as though Namie is specifically avoiding telling this boy any useful information. There’s just not much she could give him even if she were inclined to be cooperative. For all she knows, Izaya is in the building next door watching them on a small screen in a dark, windowless room.

The boy gives up on questioning her in favor of spinning round and round in Izaya’s chair. He increases speed to the point where he’s merely a blur and an abrupt stop could cause some pain. Maybe if she threw something at him—if Namie were the type to throw objects at children, that is.

The possibility of him being an intruder occurs to her. Last time he was here, all those months ago, it had been a spontaneous visit. His arrival had been expected yes, but an appointment wasn’t made and Izaya didn’t anticipate him right at that moment.

It would be inconvenient for Izaya’s intended guest or client to arrive and find this insolent teenage boy instead of the expected childish information broker.

She checks the time. Roughly five hours since Izaya left. Nearly an hour since this boy arrived. Cold ramen sits untouched on the counter, the files on her desk are now organized twice over, the boy continues to spin in the chair and somehow not throw up or fall to the ground.

Namie isn’t sure how she’d even begin getting this boy who’s made himself comfortably at home to leave.

A full hour and a half after the boy showed up is when Izaya returns.

Namie can’t see the apartment’s entrance from her desk, but she hears the door open and close.

Then she hears, “This doesn’t look like a meal at all, Namie-san. Did you offer any to him, or did you let him starve? Although, maybe he’d prefer to starve when faced with this.”

Hearing Izaya’s voice makes the boy brighten instantaneously. The chair comes to a halt so suddenly he nearly falls out of it. When he stands up, exclaiming Izaya’s name like he’s genuinely happy to see him, he lurches so violently he has to catch himself with both hands on the desk and still manages to bang his hip on the corner.

Namie does hope he throws up on the desk, though only briefly, since if he did, chances were she’d be the one to clean it up.

Izaya comes into view, sheds his jacket and drapes it over the couch’s back, and doesn’t spare her a glance. “Masaomi-kun,” he says somewhat lyrically. It brings to mind when he’d said the boy’s name in the past, more recently than when he was last here, though she fails to recall any context. “Did you eat anything?”

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“It doesn’t matter. Though it does mean the meal Namie worked so hard to make will now go to waste.”

Namie pointedly ignores that.

The two meet near the couch, directly in Namie’s line of sight. Izaya looks down at the boy, the boy looks up at him. Maybe it’s that they’re both smiling or the way that they’re smiling, but either way it is deeply unsettling. Izaya’s smile looks like something carved into a withering vegetable and the kid is smiling back like he thinks it’s something to be grateful for.

The boy’s fingers go to Izaya’s belt, touching it lightly, pulling at it harmlessly. She has barely a second for her bewilderment to settle, but then the teenage boy’s groin is pressing fully to Izaya’s thigh and her confusion renews itself. His hips drag up, slow, his fingertips sneak under Izaya’s shirt, pressing in, and then he leans into Izaya, head to his chest and bringing them a few stumbling steps closer to the couch, towards the edge of Namie’s vision.

This is mostly baffling, but Izaya responding is what really sends her mounting disgust crawling down her spine.

He takes the boy’s face in his hands and leans down to kiss him open-mouthed. And the boy reacts eagerly, favorably, his tongue darting out before Izaya’s can. He shifts to the balls of his feet for height and Izaya pulls him further. His arms circle Izaya’s waist and it’s all so warmly familiar she doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.

That Izaya has any inkling of a sex drive is far more surprising than that sex drive apparently being fueled by teenage boys.

But she’s not especially surprised, nor does she care much at all about where or how Izaya prefers to dirty his dick. She’s simply irritated and baffled that he’s chosen to do this in her presence. There are many things Namie has been made witness and accessory to; she would like statutory rape to remain off that list list. 

Her mind flits to Seiji on instinct, and she cringes, forcing her teenage brother out of mind before images she has no wish to see conjure themselves up for that very reason. Though she has no reason to think Izaya would ever have designs on her brother, she finds herself helplessly thankful that they have never seen each other, never interacted, never met for even the briefest fraction of a moment.

She’s gone cold. The tips of her fingers, her toes, her neck and face, all over it’s like her blood has been drained and replaced with slush. Her heart presses to her chest with what should be anxiety, what she hopes is and needs to be anxiety, and she cannot turn her stone-faced revulsion away no matter how much she knows she needs to.

The two have become angled in such a way that Namie can see a portion Izaya’s face, just his eye and cheekbone and hair. His eye is half-lid, eyelashes extending down to and standing out against his pale cheek. The light in the room bounces off who knows how many surfaces to his eye, making it glow an unnatural red. It all looks so structured and purposefully attractive it makes her nauseated.

A small sound leaves the teenage boy, something like a moan, or a whimper or plea, something that sounds pathetic and should embarrass him. Izaya’s eye shifts simultaneously, not making eye contact but indisputably looking right at her. It’s curved a little, just enough to prove the smile she can’t see, and Namie is struck with the inexplicable certainty that she is being mocked.

Usually Izaya is much clearer about what he’s mocking. With her, if she can’t tell, then what’s the point? He’d take her confusion as superiority over her, but he already has that. He needs her to be aware of all these pointless things he won’t outright say because they have a working relationship and there is a line. Generally she gets the gist of his insults, but at this moment she has no idea what he means to get at and it seems to be at his own expense more than anything.

Izaya is kissing this boy, and touching him, and doing both in a way that implies a level of humanity Namie is certain he doesn’t possess. And she thinks maybe in addition to playing this boy Izaya is unwittingly playing himself as well.

_Good_ , she thinks. Izaya deserves to drown in the humanity he loves so much. It’s only fitting it be his own.


End file.
